Chapter 12: Death on the Moor
(continued)

"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he
gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you
think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification,"
said he.

"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
down. You are in time to see a tragedy."

"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will
cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to
London with me tomorrow."

"Oh, you return tomorrow?"

"That is my intention."

"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which
have puzzled us?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not
been a satisfactory case."

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it
would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified
in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he
will be safe until morning."

And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist
to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly
away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge
on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who
had come so horribly to his end.